You hadn’t expected Manchester to feel so gray.

Not just the sky—low and heavy, like it hadn’t quite made up its mind—but the streets, the buildings, even the people. Everything seemed steeped in drizzle and silence. It was nothing like home.

You were eighteen, fresh off the plane from Spain, your accent still sharp, suitcase wheels catching on wet concrete. The city you landed in wasn’t the one you’d pictured. Rows of red-brick houses that all looked the same, endless chip shop queues, and strangers eyeing your pronunciation like English was a riddle you were solving out loud.

So you practiced. Reading signs in shop windows. Talking to yourself on quiet trams. Watching shows with subtitles until the words blurred together.

You met Simon Riley at the gym.

Not in some cinematic tumble of weights or dramatic introduction. You were sitting on the floor, hunched over your phone, trying to figure out how to unjam your locker, when a shadow fell across your screen.

“You alright there?” a voice asked—dry, low, with a rough-edged Mancunian drawl.

You looked up. Hoodie up, sleeves pushed to his elbows, forearms crossed. He had the look of someone who noticed things without effort. His eyes met yours—tired, maybe, but steady.

You stumbled through your reply. “Is… stuck. The lock.”

He didn’t laugh. Just crouched beside you, turned the dial, and popped it open in two seconds flat.

Then: “You’re not from ‘round here.”

You gave a small smile. “Spain.”

He nodded, like that explained everything. “Well. Welcome to Manchester—where it rains sideways and everyone’s always a bit miserable about something.”

Somehow, that was the start.

You began to recognize each other. The nod became a quiet hello. Then an offhanded comment. Then a shared grin at a man swearing at a vending machine that ate his pound coin. Conversation followed—awkward at first, then easier. Then something you looked forward to.

One afternoon, you were standing near the mats, trying to mime an exercise to yourself—twisting your torso like some confused washing machine.

He passed, paused. “Something wrong?”

You turned, flustered. “I want to do the one for core? You hold weight and twist. Not hips. Just… upper body.”

You moved your arms again, as if that would help.

He tilted his head, brow raised. “Russian twists?”

You lit up. “Yes!”

Without a word, he bent, picked up a medicine ball, and handed it to you. His fingers brushed yours—rough, calloused, and unexpectedly warm. Then he sat beside you, tugging at his sleeves.

You glanced at yourself—oversized T-shirt clinging to your back, leggings with a faded seam, mismatched socks. He looked at ease in charcoal joggers and that same black hoodie you’d seen him wear a dozen times. You wondered if he owned others—or if this one was just his favorite.

“All right,” he said, voice low and steady. “Lean back a bit. Spine straight, chest open. Don’t flail—move from the ribs. Controlled.”

He watched as you followed, his gaze calm, assessing but never critical.

“Keep your feet up if you can. Don’t worry if you can’t. Breathe through it.”